Just to Love
by Sarah3
Summary: *Chapter 7 uploaded* A Moulin Rouge/Titanic crossover. Who exactly was Calvert? What if his first name was Christian.....
1. Rose

Part One: Rose **_Part One: Rose _**

_Monmartre, Paris, August 1912 _

_"A story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that would live forever." _The room was dark, and the shadows danced by the light of a single candle as Rose let the novel's final lines sink in. Closing the pages gently, Rose found a lump rising in her throat as emotion swept over her. The elegant poignancy of those words haunted her, and the desolation that they spoke of was something that Rose had come to understand intimately these past months. Without warning, a wall of anguish welled up inside, and a shaky sob escaped her lips. Before she could compose herself, heavy tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

These moments always came when they were least expected, when a mundane happening or an innocent word brought muted memories back to life, and the pain of losing Jack suddenly became far more than she could bear. This young writer's heartfelt words of love and loss had served only to remind her of how deep the scars that laced her own heart were. As the tears continued to course down her face, Rose stopped trying to fight the sobs and lost herself yet again in a fog of grief. She barely noticed as the heavy bound book slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a thud. Then again, not much seemed to penetrate the wall of sorrow and confusion that had enveloped her for the past three months. Rose's sobs echoed across the quiet summer night, and when finally she drifted into an exhausted sleep, all was still. 

Even in the depths of anguish, morning will arrive, and Rose stirred sleepily as night gave way to a languid summer's day. The book still lay abandoned on the floor, and without knowing why, she reached for it. She wasn't even sure why she had bought it- it was buried under a mountain of clothing and dust at a second hand store, and while she certainly couldn't afford to waste her money so frivolously, she had felt inexplicably drawn to it upon reading the opening lines. Something about it fascinated her- the words spoke to her heart, and allowed her a glimpse into the author's very soul. 

The author. She had never heard of him, and even now, had to briefly glance at the cover to remember who he was. "Calvert," she whispered, trying to memorise the name. "Christian Calvert." She wondered about him, this unknown writer whose sad tale so closely paralleled her own. Who was he? Where was he now? Had he learned to love again, or had he remained lost forever in his grief? Rose had puzzled over this question many times herself, wondering if it was possible to care so deeply again, if such a miracle could happen twice. She knew that life must go on, but every time she tried to imagine her life rebuilt, she could conjure up little more than a blank canvas. And deep inside, she felt that something fundamental in her had altered forever after losing Jack. She would never again be able to blindly place her faith in the power of love to change the world. It just didn't happen. "What about you, Christian Calvert?" Rose whispered to herself. "Do you still hold onto your bohemian ideals? Do you still believe that there is nothing worse than a life lived without love? Or has life shown you too many things that are indeed worse? Flipping open the front page, the book's dedication sprang to Rose's eyes. _"For my darling Satine. Come what may, I will love you until the end of time." _

Snapping the book shut, Rose jumped out of bed. There was so much sadness in the world, and sometimes Rose knew that she had to escape from it just to stay sane. With an air of forced jauntiness, she flung open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream into the room. The street below was awash with life- unusual for this area, Rose thought. She had been here a month, and sometimes its down at heel air depressed her. Once, she knew, this had been the centre of…she glanced back at the book lying on the floor to refresh her memory…Christian's bohemian revolution. A place where anything went, where impossible dreams were dreamt, where writers and musicians and artists allowed their imaginations to take flight. Where life was defined by the search for truth, beauty, freedom, but above all things, love. Rose inwardly scoffed at such fanciful notions. "No wonder they didn't last. Building their lives upon such shaky foundations- they were doomed to failure." In fact, the Moulin Rouge itself was just across the road, and gazing out the window, Rose could see its derelict shape silhouetted against the bright sun, the broken windows and rotting boards nothing more now than a symbol of lost dreams. 

Paris. It had seemed as good a place as any to come in those dark days following Jack's death. On her better days, its beauty lifted her soul, and there were times where she felt close to Jack here, could imagine him exclaiming in delight at the work of the local artists, or being inspired by the passing parade of people, each with a story that he could bring out on paper. A vague flicker of inspiration still danced deep within whenever she thought of performing on stage one day, and Paris seemed like a place where such foolish dreams could be indulged. In fact, there was an audition this afternoon, a play being performed by a small theatre company in the outskirts of the city. In a small moment of determination yesterday, Rose had made the decision to take a chance, to audition for one of the larger roles. In the cold light of day, doubt surfaced but Jack's words echoed in her mind. "Make it count." Surely, if nothing else, she could do this for Jack. Surely somehow she could summon the will to carry on.


	2. Christian

Title

Title: Just to Love  
Author: Sarah French (sfrench@eisa.net.au)  
Rating: PG just to be safe.  
Disclaimer: Christian and Satine belong to Baz (although he could share Christian with me for a little while *g*) Rose and Jack belong to James C. I'm only borrowing them and remain in complete awe of the people who created these two wonderful movies :-)  
Fandom: Titanic/Moulin Rouge  
Feedback: Extremely welcome!  
Pairing: Rose/Christian  
Summary: A Moulin Rouge and Titanic crossover. Who exactly was Calvert? What if his first name was Christian...  
Thanks to: The MR list for issuing this challenge, I have had lots of fun with it!

**_Part Two: Christian _**

Dusk was falling as Christian stepped of the train, a cloud of smoky air swirling around him. Thirteen years. Had it really been that long since he had stepped onto this platform for the first time? The years seemed to telescope into a mere blink of an eye. Yet surely the last time he had stood on this spot, he had been more… alive. Surely then, the world had seemed full of untold promise, had seemed to sparkle with possibility. Surely then he hadn't felt so...cheated by life. 

Oh, life would go on. That much he had learned in the past thirteen years. Life would go on whether you felt like it or not. The sun still rose every morning, even when your heart was breaking and your dreams were crushed. "_I believe in truth, beauty, freedom and above all things, love."_ The naïve voice of his youth echoed through the years, mocking him. At 34 years of age, he no longer found any solace in such ideals. How could he have pinned so much faith on such foolishness, when darker forces could step in at any time, snatching all that he cared for from his grasp? 

He didn't want to be here. In fact, he could scarcely think of any place he would rather be less. Still, he had to eat and there weren't exactly many openings back home for middle-aged writers desperately trying to keep the wolves from the door. Especially writers who merely seemed to be going through the motions these days. At least this play was an opportunity to be involved in something worthwhile. And it _had_ been almost thirteen years. Surely the familiar surrounds of Monmartre would no longer clutch at his heart with such ferocity? Surely, after so long, he could cope with the memories. Still, standing on the spot where it had all begun so long ago, Satine felt very real to him again, in a way that she hadn't in years. He almost expected to turn around and see her standing there, smiling and untouched by the passing of time. _"How wonderful life is now you're in the world…"_ The words sprang to Christian's lips involuntarily, words he hadn't thought of or spoken aloud in years. 

Satine. Oh, he supposed he had moved on. After all- the show must _ always_ go on. He had fulfilled her wish, pouring his soul, his heartache, his tears into his novel. Her novel. No doubt it now collected dust in some musty old bookstore. He had fled Paris, found work, a place to live, friends, lovers… all things that he supposed approximated a life. As the years passed, he found he thought of her less frequently, found that the sound of her voice and the touch of her skin against his were no longer burned into his consciousness. Yet nothing had felt quite… real since that dreadful day 13 years ago. It was as though he merely lived out some elaborate charade, burying his pain so deeply that he was no longer sure who he really was. It had become a habit, this inability to show his face to the world, and he gradually retreated further behind his mask. How ironic that he, who had once sought out truth, should have become so like those shadowy creatures of the underworld, caught forever in a strange half-life. 

Pushing these thoughts to the back of his head with grim determination, Christian trudged on through the streets. He had to stop wallowing in memories that would only drive him mad. Shaking his head to clear the ghosts from his mind, he realised with a sudden gasp where his absent-minded wandering had taken him. It looked the same as ever in this half-light, shabby and downtrodden in a surreal sort of way. It seemed to Christian that perhaps it had always been like this. As though the glamour, the sparkling lights, the energy of the dance floor, had been nothing but a thin veneer, but that it was only now, stripped of his youthful idealism, that Christian was able to see it for what it was. 

The Moulin Rouge. A place of dreams and nightmares. A place that celebrated the freedom of the bohemian world, yet had become Satine's final prison. An altar to beauty, to glamour, yet where all that was sordid in the human soul was given free reign. The place where Christian had learned of love and hatred, jealousy and desire, joy and grief.  
  
Turning his head slightly, Christian could see the room where he had spent his days and hours. Happy times, when the warmth of Satine's affection had reduced the rest of the world to mere background noise. Desolate times when the only thing that could possibly block out the pain was an absinthe-induced haze. The window was dark, the apartment above boarded up and seemingly abandoned. Could anyone possibly be up there, living there anymore? Glancing at the decay and neglect around him, Christian couldn't imagine anyone staying long in such a forsaken spot. It couldn't hurt to climb the rickety stairs once again, to glance around the room in the forlorn hope of recapturing, just for a second, some of the peaceful joy that had filled him in those sunshine filled days. 

Hating himself for his weakness, he crept cautiously along the passageway. It was exactly as it had always been; shabby, dark and slightly damp. It seemed uninhabitable- but then it always had. The all-too familiar door was slightly ajar, and it gave an unwilling creak as he pushed it gingerly. 

The red-headed girl lying on the bed let out a half muffled scream and instinctively jumped up, trying to put as much distance between this dishevelled looking stranger and herself as possible. He could hear her saying something… screaming something, but the words swum together, became nonsensical and meaningless as he stared at her. The long red hair. The blue eyes. And in this room.. here, of all places. Was this some kind of cruel joke? Was he truly losing his grip on reality? "Sa.. Satine?" he whispered, his voice cracking on the finale syllable. "Satine is that you?" The room whirled around him once more as suddenly everything went black.


	3. A little shy... and sad of eye

Title

****Title:  Just to Love  
** Author:** Sarah ([sfrench@eisa.net.au][1])  
** Part:** 3/?  
** Rating:** PG just to be safe.  
** Disclaimer:** Christian and Satine belong to Baz (although he could share Christian with me for a little while *g*) Rose and Jack belong to James C. I'm only borrowing them (I'll give them back, I promise!) and remain in complete awe of the people who created these two wonderful movies :-) The lyrics at the beginning are an extremely... creatively interpreted ... version of the song _Pleased to Meet You, _which is by a band from Brisbane (I think!) called Anike. I don't own that either. :-)   
** Archive:** My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, anyone who wants it. :-)   
** Fandom:** Titanic/Moulin Rouge  
** Feedback:** Is a many spleandoured thing! Feedback lifts us up where we belong! All we need is.... okay, I think I am having serious MR withdrawal symptoms, it has been over a week! (ten days to be exact) *gasp* But... anyway.. my point was I like feedback *g*  
** Summary:** A _ Moulin Rouge_ and _ Titanic_ crossover. Who exactly was Calvert? What if his first name was Christian...  
** Thanks to:** The MR list for issuing this challenge, I have had lots of fun with it! Oh.. and I would also like to give an absolutely huge thanks for the phenomenal feedback I have received for this story. :-) I've been trying to reply to people individually to thank them, but in case I missed anyone.. thank you thank you thank you! You have no idea how excited I get when I get feedback.. he he. I really appreciate it, and it encourages me to keep writing :-) Oh yes.. and I think that the ending to this chapter kind of sucks, so sorry about that. :-) I've also decided to make it a little longer than four parts, which is what it was meant to be originally.

**Part Three: ...a little shy... and sad of eye...**

_"You don't appear to recognise me,  
But you see, you look just like someone that I used to know,  
Somewhere, a lifetime ago..."_  
  
It was the sun creeping over the windowsill and across his eyes that finally stirred Christian from a restless slumber. The light blinded him at first, and reality was slow to sink in. His sleepy eyes traversed the room, trying to take in where he was... what had happened. Only the faintest memories of the night before danced at the edge of his mind, tantalising him. He felt strangely disorientated, unsettled in a way that he couldn't name. Something... something was wrong, something was out of the ordinary. The sun at home didn't shine so brightly, so directly in his eyes. His bed at home wasn't quite as uncomfortably lumpy. He wasn't at home, yet somehow.... somehow, it all seemed so familiar.

His mind spun with fragmented memories as he tried to recapture what had transpired last night. Paris...Monmartre...a play. A play. That was right, he had come back to Paris to write a play. That much at least he remembered clearly. His old apartment...he had climbed the stairs to his old apartment, and there was a girl... a girl with red hair and blue eyes, a girl who couldn't possibly be... but she had looked so much like her...so very, very like her in the dim light. Christian shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the pitiless morning sun, trying to block out the memories that were starting to flood back. The Moulin Rouge. _The Moulin Rouge_? His heart racing in panic, he sat bolt upright in bed.

The room was exactly as he remembered it. The shabby bed in the corner. The doors that opened out onto a small balcony, the mantelpiece over the fireplace. He glanced around wildly, searching for something, anything at all that might pull him from this surreal nightmare, might help to reaffirm his grip on reality. A calendar! Leaping from the bed, he pulled the calendar from the wall, leafing through it frantically. 1912. It was 1912, not 1899. Satine had been dead for almost thirteen years. So it couldn't have been.. he couldn't have. It couldn't have been her. 

---------------------------------------------

Rose pushed the door open gingerly, and it creaked unwillingly in response. Was he still there? She barely knew what to expect. When the dishevelled and dirty stranger had collapsed on her doorstep last night, her first response had been to run for the police, throw him out on the street- anything. Just as long as he wasn't in her apartment any longer. But looking at him, lying pitifully on the cold floor, something in her heart just wouldn't allow her to do it. Instead, the expression on his face when he had first spotted her standing in the half-light replayed itself over and over in her mind. His eyes were so full of barely concealed pain, Rose reflected, that they seemed almost... haunted. As though he had been walking an emotional tightrope for a long time, and something inside him just couldn't cope any longer. It wasn't rational, but Rose knew that she couldn't just turn her back. 

With a wistful smile, she thought "That might be your influence, Jack." That night on the bow, he had taken it upon himself to risk his life to save her- a perfect stranger. Had he seen the same haunted expression in her eyes? Had he, too, sensed that she needed help, even though Rose barely knew it herself? Rose didn't know, doubted she'd ever know, but to return the favour now seemed strangely appropriate. "Something tells me you'd agree, Jack," she thought. 

Still, throwing him out on the street was one thing. Spending the night alone in her apartment while an unconscious stranger lay in her bed was quite another. Instead, she had huddled the night away in a cafe, while prostitutes plied their trade outside and gruff looking men leered at her suggestively. She was relieved when the sun's rays began to slide over the horizon. Now, however, standing outside her own front door, she nervously wondered what kind of reception she might receive from the stranger in her room.

---------------------------------------------

The door's creak snapped Christian from his reverie, and he jumped from the bed. Framed in the doorway was the girl from last night, the girl with red hair and blue eyes. "You're not...." he murmured, a dazed expression filling his eyes as they reluctantly met hers. 

Confusion spread across Rose's face. Whatever she had expected from this moment, it wasn't this. "I'm not what?" Her voice was quiet, measured, yet Christian could sense the nervousness barely concealed beneath the surface.

"I...I thought you were..." Christian paused, searching again for something that would sound even a little rational. "Last night, I thought you were someone else.".

"Someone else?" Confusion announced itself more plainly on Rose's features. "Who else would I be? _You _burst into _my _home, looking like..." searching vainly for the right words, she finally gestured towards him impatiently. "Looking like _that_, promptly collapse on my doorstop, muttering some incoherent nonsense, and then you try to explain the whole thing by telling me that you thought I was someone else? Who on earth did you think I _was_? And more to the point, what were you doing here in the first place?"

Christian paused, uncertain, unwilling to explain the whole foolish, sad story to a stranger. His eyes met Rose's for a second, then just as quickly he looked away. "I...I... well..." he paused, sensing Rose's growing impatience. "I can explain!" he cried. "Really... I can...I can explain everything..." he trailed of, realizing that any explanation would only make him sound foolish, make him sound exactly like what he was- a middle aged man, still chasing the ghosts of long-vanished happiness. 

"Well." Rose spoke curtly, suddenly impatient, cold and tired after spending a frightening night on the streets of Paris. "I'm not sure I care to hear your explanation anymore. I took care of you when you collapsed on my doorstop and you haven't even the decency to offer me a coherent excuse. I don't even think there _ is_ an explanation, you're probably just another drunk wandering these god-forsaken streets!" she finished savagely. "Please, just go, leave me alone and go. I've done more than enough for you." 

Christian paused, unwilling to leave on this note after her kindness. "Wait! Please! Don't go! I mean...I'm sorry." Encouraged by the compassion that briefly flitted across her face, he continued. "What I mean to say was, please at least let me thank you." 

Rose sighed. His eyes implored her to believe him, to trust him, and despite herself, her heart warmed to him. "You're welcome." She spoke softly. "I didn't know what else to do. I knew I couldn't just... leave you there. I don't know what it is, but I could sense that something was wrong." She paused briefly, not sure whether to continue. "The expression in your eyes-when you saw me here, you looked so sad, so confused, and I just kept thinking that I had to do something to help." 

Christian bit his lip, studying the floor to avoid meeting her eyes. How could she have read him so accurately in such a brief period of time? Did every emotion show itself in his face? 

"Anyway," Rose paused, made suddenly awkward by Christian's obvious discomfort. Had she touched a nerve with her comments? "I'm sure you're tired and...um, well... anxious to leave, but..." She looked up, meeting his eyes, which were suddenly warm. "I'm glad I could help." 

Standing up, Christian cautiously offered his hand. "My name's Christian." His face broke into a smile. "If we're going to meet like this, the least we can do is to know each other's names." 

"Christian." Rose repeated the name slowly. "My name's Rose. Rose Dawson."

---------------------------------------------

Perhaps it was just being in this room again after so many years, but Christian felt a sudden surge of belonging. There was warmth in Rose's eyes, which mingled with a depth of feeling that he couldn't fathom. Sadness? Compassion? Suddenly realizing that he had held Rose's gaze far beyond the point of politeness, Christian glanced away quickly, stumbling to pick his bag up. 

"Well.. ah.. I should go, because I've inconvenienced you enough already, and.. well I really should go."

Suddenly, something lying on the floor caught his attention, halting his nervous chatter midstream. "What's this?" He spoke softly, holding up the blue bound book, which still lay where it had fallen the previous night. 

Rose frowned slightly. Just when he'd started to make some sense, just when she had started to feel the faintest hint of what could only be described as affection for this curious stranger, and he started to act like a fool again. 

"It's a book, Christian." She spoke with exaggerated patience. "In fact, it's _my_ book," she continued, pulling it from his hand, which had suddenly gone limp.

"Your book? You've...you've read this?"

"Well... yes, of course I've read it. Why wouldn't I?" Rose paused. That look was there again, that look of pain and confusion that seemed to flood his eyes without warning. "What on earth is it, Christian?"

"You...you don't understand. It's my book." Confusion filled Roses' features. "I _am _Christian Calvert." Christian paused, pointing almost disbelievingly at the name on the front cover, tracing the gold etched lettering with his finger. "I wrote this- a long, long time ago." Suddenly, to his horror, long-forgotten tears sprang to his eyes. The days and nights he had spent in cocooned in this room as his world fell in around him closed in again.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he reached for the book. "Do you mind if I..." he asked. It wasn't really a question, and Rose assented wordlessly. He bit his lip as he read the dedication. "Come what may," he whispered, his trembling voice barely audible, as he spoke to himself, to his memories. 

---------------------------------------------

Rose didn't like to disturb him, and for a long time the only sound in the room was of pages turning, interspersed with Christian's occasional muffled sobs. "Thank you," he whispered, finally. "I... I didn't keep a copy for myself. I didn't think... at the time I didn't think I could face it, I just wanted to get rid of it, but over the years, I'd wished so many times that I had." He raised his head to meet her eyes. "I suppose you must think I'm pretty foolish," he said, attempting a rueful smile.

Silently, Rose shook her head. She understood now. Understood the pained expression in his eyes, understood why he had been so startled when he had seen her, understood what he was doing here. Even understood why she had felt so drawn to him. "Christian, no. I... I know what it is to lose someone you love." She spoke slowly, painfully, and he looked at her with obvious curiosity. He asked nothing though, instead letting her continue. "I don't think you're foolish." She paused, not sure whether to go on or not. "Christian.. last night. You thought I was Satine?" 

"Ridiculous, isn't it? You'd think, that after so many years...but when I found myself in Paris, in Monmartre, I just-just wanted to come up here, look at this room again- chasing ghosts, I know. I didn't think anyone would be here, but when I saw you, in the darkness- you look just like her." He shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's irrational, mistaking you for a woman who's been dead for thirteen years, but when I saw you, here of all places..." 

Rose spoke gently, not wanting to intrude too much, but unwilling to let the moment pass. "You must have loved her very much." Christian shrugged again, not trusting his voice. "Your book, Christian. It's beautiful. It's... I felt as though I could see into your soul as I read it. As though you showed me a side of myself that I had never understood before." Rose spoke fervently, trying desperately to impart to him how deeply touched she had been by his story. "You have so much talent. Do you still write?" 

He smiled ruefully. "In a fashion." Regret underscored his words. "I've never managed to capture what I felt before... before Satine died. And then afterwards... well, I wrote for her, just like I'd promised... and once I'd finished, I just couldn't seem to find the inspiration. Everything I tried to write seemed foolish, insignificant. Here I was, trying to write about truth, beauty, freedom... love. Whilst the whole time my own life was so empty. There didn't seem any point. So, now I write to put food on the table, to pay the rent- nothing more." He smiled sadly. "The price you pay for growing up, for seeing your dreams for what they really are." 

The silence in the room was oppressively heavy as Christian's bitter words hung in the air. "I'm sorry." He spoke finally with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be... burdening you with my ancient wounds. I barely even know you, I can't think you're interested. Anyway... I'm fine. It's was all a long time ago. It's just that being here, in Paris again- it reopens old scars." 

"Christian, it's alright. I understand, in a sense. I... have my own scars."

"You do?" His voice was warm, an open invitation to confide. 

Rose looked away, not wanting to elaborate. It was too soon, too painful. She just couldn't speak of it, not to Christian, not to anyone. Gratitude surged through her as Christian noticed her discomfort and promptly changed the subject.

"I said I wanted to thank you for your help, and I do. Will you let me take you to lunch?" A sudden grin flashed across his face, and Rose wondered briefly what he must have been like before... when he was younger, untouched by tragedy. He must have been so full of enthusiasm and energy, Rose thought. "My treat."

Rose laughed, relieved that the sombre atmosphere had been relieved a little. "Well, if it's your treat- why not?"

---------------------------------------------

The sidewalk was busy, bustling with people, and Rose was determined to keep the mood light. "So, Christian, what brings you to Paris?" She spoke almost playfully, and for a second it struck her how odd life could be. Here she was, in the sunlight of a Parisian morning, making small talk with a man she had only just me, and Jack hadn't even been gone five months. A sombre shadow passed briefly across her face, and if Christian noticed it, he didn't comment. 

"Well, believe it or not, I've come here to write a play."

Rose's heart plummeted. A play? "Oh no! I forgot...." She stopped suddenly, aware that Christian was looking at her with concern. "The other night, when you... um... arrived. I was meant to be auditioning for a play that night," she explained. "I completely forgot, and now it's probably too late." She shrugged slightly, her tone wistful. "Oh well, I suppose it doesn't matter much." She smiled slightly. "So, anyway, Christian, tell me about your play. What's it about?"

"About?" His voice was mocking, recalling the words of his youth. "It's about love. What else?" A sigh escaped his lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I just get... bitter, sometimes. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, sincere. "It's about losing love, and learning to love again." His voice became dreamlike. "It's about love overcoming all obstacles." 

To be continued!

   [1]: mailto:sfrench@eisa.net.au



	4. A confrontation

Title 

Title: Just to Love   
Author: Sarah (sfrench@austarmetro.com.au)   
Rating: PG   
Part: 4/?   
Archive: My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, Penniless Poet, any Titanic fic archives, anyone else who wants it. Just let me know.   
Disclaimer. All recognizable characters copyright of their respective creators- BL and JC. No, they're not mine; I made no money from this.   
Feedback: Most welcome.   
Summary: A Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. What if Calvert's first name was Christian?   
A/N: In response to a challenge on the M_R list to write a Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. Sorry I've neglected this for months- me bad, I know. 

**Part four **

**…the greatest thing you'll ever learn… **

The room was cold. Despite the late afternoon summer sunshine flooding the room it retained a slight chilliness, a dampness, as though the sun's warmth couldn't penetrate the darkest corners. Christian had spent enough nights in cheap hotels and fly-by-night lodgings to know such surroundings would always be cold. Cold because they were far from home, because they were lonely, cold because nobody cared and nobody stayed around long enough to make a difference. Cold in the same way that Christian had felt inside for so long. 

Shrugging out of his coat, Christian let it slither to the ground in a heap. It added to the shabbiness of his surroundings, but he barely noticed. His heart had caught the infectious mood of the sunshine, and forbade him to sit still. Glancing about him, his eyes fell on his typewriter. Guilt took hold for the briefest of seconds-the auditions were today and the play was far from complete. But as his eyes explored the room, all he found were reasons not to stay inside. The dirty cups on the table. The unmade bed. The messy sheafs of paper, waiting to be edited and tweaked, melded into coherent words and brought alive. Oppressiveness blanketed the room and the air was dank and musty. It was impossible to imagine inspiration and imagination taking flight within these walls today, and the breeze at the window was warm and gentle, carrying the heavy scent of a beautiful summer's afternoon. Retrieving his coat from the floor, he headed towards the door. 

He wanted to wander aimlessly, to let his restless feet take him where they would. But even now, Paris held too many scars to risk a casual stroll. Just as the sunlight couldn't reach every corner of the room, the passing of time hadn't been able to heal the very darkest corners of his heart. The memories remained buried there- the memories, the tears and the moments of fathomless heartbreak. Usually they lurked unheeded, but they were a part of him still, and around every corner lay buried dreams and unwelcome reminders. He needed to get outside, needed the fresh air and sunshine and time to let his mind wander at will, but he didn't want his restless stroll to denigrate into self-pity. Searching his mind for a destination to lend purpose to his afternoon, he suddenly found a direction. 

------------------------------- 

Marooned on stage, Rose was horribly aware of her isolation and felt self-conscious amongst a sea of empty space and solemn faces. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and cringed as the harsh noise bounced off the walls. Her shaking hands belied her nerves as she clutched the script. Her left hand twisted itself anxiously in the folds of her skirt, but her face bore a mask of restrained confidence despite the nerves seething beneath. 

Breathing deeply, Rose glanced down at the script one last time. The words swum together, meaningless and incomprehensible. What was she thinking? Freshly arrived on the streets of Paris, and she was auditioning for a leading role? The sheer audacity of what she was about to do choked her, and her voice was lost in a wave of terror. 

She didn't notice as a chink of sunlight fell across the dark floorboards, didn't hear the thin creak of the door opening. The intruder's stature wasn't imposing, but every fibre of him announced wealth and privilege and an unshakeable belief in his own right. Even the way he pulled the door shut behind him betrayed his character. He did not hesitate, did not question his right to be there, and made no attempt to apologise for his presence. Striding across the hall, his measured gait hinted at tightly coiled anger, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Rage simmered in his eyes as he leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed upon the lonely figure on the stage. 

Glancing out across the empty seats, Rose saw only a dim shadow silhouetted against the wall, yet her mind leapt instantly towards the past. His stance, the cut of his clothes, the mixture of arrogance and gentility he exuded- all of these summoned forth a dimly recalled sense of unease. 

In the front row, someone cleared their throat pointedly, and the shadows and memories in Rose's mind dissolved as quickly as they'd arrived. She opened her mouth to speak, but the voice that escaped sounded high and distant, her tone flat and expressionless. Surely everybody could see her hands shaking? Panic rose in her throat, and she glanced back again at the impassive figure at the back of the room. 

Stumbling and tripping over her words, and gripped by a deepening sense of foreboding, she struggled through the rest of the audition. With bowed head and mumbled apology, she hurried from the stage. 

---------------------------------- 

Cal could feel a sneer playing across his face as he watched her. Had it been tenderness, or sentimentality that had driven him to search for her again? Some genuine depth of feeling that surfaced once she was gone? Perhaps it was, and in the darkness of the night he had often allowed himself the weakness of admitting that he missed her.But here, in this dusty, echoing place, no trace of such affection remained. It had been replaced by mocking pity. What life was this, play acting and pretending at being an actress? Her greatest performance was the one she was providing for herself. The irony was amusing, and Cal couldn't restrain a smile. 

Rose's head was bowed as she slipped out the stage door, clutching her bag under one arm. For a brief second, she looked small and pathetic and lonely, and Cal was flooded with an unexpected rush of tenderness, but as she straightened her shoulders defiantly, the Rose he had known returned. Argumentative. Headstrong and wilful, infuriatingly impossible to control. Anger boiled inside once more. How dare she play them all for fools? How dare she run around Paris, pretending to be some sort of actress, leaving him burdened with Ruth, abandoning him, shaming him? 

Falling into step with her he followed her out the door. 

---------------- 

With the warmth of the sun playing across his shoulders, Christian felt at ease. The auditions would be in full swing by the time he arrived- just the distraction he needed.He allowed a jaunty whistle to escape his lips as he rounded the corner and saw the theatre up ahead. A vaguely familiar figure at the door caught his eye. 

Quickening his step, the figure came into full view; red hair glinting in the sun, dressed simply yet somehow possessing an elegance that transcended her humble circumstances. For the second time in as many days, the ghosts were summoned from his past. But it was Rose who stood framed by the doorway, who at this moment looked scared and confused and very much alone. What was she doing here? 

He was about to call out to her, when he noticed another figure, a little further back in the door's shadow. Slowing his steps, voices floated towards him. 

"You always were a little fool, weren't you?" The man's face was hidden, but his tone dripped with derision. "Look at you. Play acting, pretending. What do you think you're doing?" His voice, equal parts mocking superiority and outright contempt, reached Christian's ears as he instinctively drew back, out of sight. 

Rose struggled desperately to remain measured, but a half buried sob refused to stay hidden. "You can't…" her voice shuddered, and she took a shaky breath. "You can't hurt me anymore Cal. You can't… you have nothing over me now." She seemed to find strength in this thought, for her voice grew more forceful. 

"You have nothing over me now, and you know it. I don't care anymore- don't care what you or Mother or anyone else thinks, and you **know** that's the only weapon you ever had!" 

Hovering in the shadows, Christian felt distinctly uneasy. Should he get involved, try to help? Was it wiser not to intrude? What exactly was going on here? He didn't like the man's tone, but he barely knew Rose, and knew nothing of her past. He had no right to get interfere in what was clearly a buried secret coming back to haunt her. 

From his vantage point, Christian watched her shadow as she turned to leave. He watched as, without warning, the man grabbed her arm forcefully. Christian flinched involuntarily, and heard Rose's horrified cry. 

"You always did underestimate me, Rose. I have… ways and means. Don't flatter yourself. I'd just as happily leave you to run the streets of Paris with any gutter rat you choose. " A sharp intake of breath as Rose gasped and fought unsuccessfully to hold back a sob. 

"I will not be made out a fool, Rose. I will not have my fiancé deserting me, deserting me for some foolhardy, romanticized, penniless existence. Do I make myself clear?" There was satisfaction in his voice as he delivered these words, as though settling a long-standing debt. 

Hiding in the shadows, Christian was more at a loss than ever. Fiancé? She was engaged? She wore no ring. How many secrets did she have buried in her past? As he watched, the man took her forcefully by the shoulders, as though driving his point home. Rose's strangled cry was enough to convince Christian to emerge. 

"Rose." Her head snapped up in shock, the fear in her eyes replaced with recognition and abject relief. 

"Ch-Christian? What…?" 

Christian struggled to keep his voice calm, to infer that he would stand for no nonsense. "Rose. Is something…" he let his eyes drift towards Cal. "…wrong?" 

A forced laugh accompanied the words they both knew were lies. "Oh, no, I just…We just… he's just someone I used to…" Blushing, as though suddenly embarrassed at what he had witnessed, embarrassed at the obvious lie, her voice faded to a shadow. 

"Friend of yours?" He gestured towards Cal, contemptuously, and Rose could barely conceal a small grin as she carefully avoided the question. 

"I think he was just leaving. Weren't you, Cal?" 

Cal's eyes flashed. Embarrassment was an unwelcome stranger to him, insulated as he was by layers of wealth and power. 

"Oh, I'm leaving. I'm leaving Rose, but I stand by everything I said. Don't forget that." 

* * *

Christian could tell that Rose was shaking as they stood side-by-side, watching Cal's departing figure. As he turned the corner, out of sight, Christian turned towards her. 

"Are you alright?" His voice was earnest; his expression gentle, as though trying to reassure her that she was safe. 

Rose started to nod, trying to uphold her bravado for Christian's benefit, but she could maintain it no longer. Slowly the nod became an uncertain shake of the head as a sob clamoured to the surface. 

"Ch-Christian…thank you…" she hiccupped as her words tumbled over each other, partially lost in tears. "Thank you. I… I don't know what he would have done if you…" Fighting to regain some control over her voice, she continued shakily. "He...I'm sure he would have done something to...hurt me... if you hadn't shown up." A weak smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. "Right on time!" The smile didn't last for long, wavering as her hands began to shake. 

Awkwardly, he held his arms out to her, and she fell into his embrace, searching for comfort and warmth, wanting to be close to someone again. Her sobs eventually subsided, and still they stood there, his hand resting gently on her hair as she buried her face in his shirt. As the late afternoon shadows lengthened, the past and the present became mingled in Christian's mind, danced together to some unheard tune. He remembered another night just like this, when Satine had clung to him as though he were a rock in a dissolving world and promised him everything-a life that would never be, a dream that would never be fulfilled. The past felt so close that at that moment, he almost believed he could reach out and touch it. Change it. Live it. 

Pulling away from Rose slightly, he turned his head so that she might not see that his cheeks, too, were tear stained. 

"Come on, Rose. It's getting late. I'll walk you home." 

**To be continued!**


	5. Moonlight and Candelight

Title: Just to Love  
Author: Sarah (sfrench@austarmetro.com.au)  
Rating: PG  
Part: 5/7  
Fandom:Guess that would be Titanic and Moulin Rouge.*g*  
Archive: My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, Penniless Poet, any Titanic fic archives, anyone else who wants it. Just let me know.  
Disclaimer. All recognizable characters copyright of their respective creators- BL and JC.   
Feedback: Most welcome.   
Summary: A Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. What if Calvert's first name was Christian?  
A/N: In response to a challenge on the M_R list to write a Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. This has been neglected, I realise, but if anyone is still actually reading it, I have a plan all mapped out and I've started the later chapters and know how it's going to finish, so bear with me, it will be completed pretty soon! 

-------------------------------- 

They walked together through the night as the shadows lengthened and moonlight dripped from the trees. They stood side by side, close, but not too close, lost in companionable silence. The alternative would have demanded explanations. It would have led to awkward questions and words that could not be unsaid. Dangerous words, soft words, gentle words. Words that gave life to the past. Given the choice, silence was preferable.

Rose shivered slightly; wrapping her arms around her and regretting the coat left at home.

Glancing towards her, Christian noticed her shiver, and an old shadow darkened his face. Oh, but time and memories were liquid, flowing together so effortlessly that the past and the present became muddled until he wasn't sure what was real and what was merely memory willed into life. A moment. A cold, dark night. Someone beside him who would accept the offer of his coat with grateful smiles and mild protest, finally consenting to huddle beneath it the rest of the way home. There had been so many nights, just like this, filled with whispered conversation and ringing laughter. After years of building walls and avoiding shadows, how was it that he had come full circle?

"Do you want to borrow this?" His voice was quietly gruff as he shrugged out of his coat, fighting back a helpless sigh and faintly hating himself for falling deeper into memories and dejavu. 

With a grateful half-smile, Rose wrapped the coat tightly around herself. 

"Thank you.' It was a shadow of an answer, floating in the air between them.

Rose looked to the ground as she stolidly placed one foot in front of the other. The images came in sharp flashes, replaying themselves into infinity until she thought she might go mad. Jack. Jack walking beside her on deck, talking softly. Throwing his coat around her shoulders after he noticed her shivering. He lived again in those seconds, and his presence enveloped her. They had laughed and laughed that night, laughed at his gallantry and at their stumbling, tuneless song.

_"Come Josephine, in my flying machine..."_

Christian's eyes snapped to life as they met hers.

"You... you sing?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders, embarrassed. She shrunk further into the voluminous coat, searching for a place to hide.

"No, no, I don't sing." The moment was warm, it was a moment for confidences, a moment in which to share secrets.

"At least, not usually." She paused, reluctant to continue. A sigh, and the words escaped before she was sure she'd even thought them.

"Someone I knew used to sing that song with me."

He held her gaze for just a moment as she blinked rapidly, beating back the tears with gritted, clenching force of will. But they fought back, and she tore her eyes away furiously, her feet flying down the street, beating a steady rhythm of determination and embarrassment. Running to catch up, Christian felt an inexplicable need to counter with confidences of his own.

"It's just that... she used to sing too." 

His voice cracked on the final word, and Rose shivered involuntarily. After all those years, his voice was still strained with pain, still full of tremulous, trembling emotion whenever he spoke of her. His eyes refused to meet hers, as though afraid that any contact might shatter the serene surface of his grief. 

Stretching out a hand to gently touch his shoulder, her voice cut through his thoughts and he jumped. 

"I know, Christian. I read your book. Remember?"

"Oh. Of course." Clipped, brittle words, punctuated by self-conscious laughter. "Silly old me. How could I forget that?" 

Glancing up at her, he spoke ruefully, his voice tinged with regret. "I guess you pretty much know as much about her as I ever did, then."

Shaking her head gently, she avoided his eyes. They were so full of unspent pain; they burned into her and seemed to magnify her own grief. It must feel strange, to find his shadowy love coaxed back into life after so many silent years. To speak of her, to relive it all through the simple fact that she knew their story, knew about her. 

_"Tell our story, Christian. That way, I'll always be with you."_

She had been right, Rose reflected. She was with him- she was in the soft looked that still flooded his eyes whenever he spoke of her, in the smile that managed to fight through the pain. Satine's plea echoed in her ears like- like what? A warning? An outstretched hand, offering salvation? Would Jack really be any more present, here and now, if she were to draw up a chair and hand Christian the shards of her broken heart? 

Her sigh was audible; her eyes stared straight ahead and saw nothing. Could she possibly find the words to make anybody understand, anyway? None of it had made any sense, even as she had lived it. It had simply _been_-crazy, foolish love, giggling in dark corners and sharing kisses. Secrets and whispers and furtive meetings. Then, just as all the giddy moments were starting to melt together so that they filled her world, it was gone. 

Yet, somehow... somehow she didn't think that it would take many words to make Christian understand, but she couldn't open that door. She couldn't let Jack's memory out of her safekeeping yet, couldn't quantify her great tragedy into neat phrases and recognizable emotions. She tried to imagine herself forming the words that might make Christian understand, and failed miserably. Right now, she didn't want understanding beyond that which Christian was already offering- a friendly face, a sympathetic ear and the knowledge that sometimes silence was enough.

********* 

Rose fussed around, lighting gas lamps as she tripped around the room. 

"There!" She spoke wryly. "Home sweet home!" 

Christian glanced around, his expression misty and lost. "This place always looked better by lamplight." He laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "More, you know, bohemian. The perfect home for the penniless poet." 

Rose laughed at his boyish expression, wondering again what he must have been like before fate contributed its verse to his story. Wondering if that person still existed beneath the layers of bitterness and regret.

"This was…" He glanced up at her, his voice coloured by a thousand memories. "I was so happy here for awhile. Oh, it was old and shabby, and I lived in constant fear of the roof collapsing completely-"

Rose giggled at that, glancing up nervously. 

"I'm kind of glad that somebody got around to fixing that." 

His smile acknowledged her words, but he was lost in the warmth of the past. 

"The door was never locked. I used to sit by that window and write all evening. Friends would come and go and we'd sit and talk. There'd be wine and poetry and so much laughter. And then…" 

A pause. A simple intake of breath that spanned a thousand tears.

"Then there was Satine." His voice disappeared as he met her gaze deliberately.

"Rose? You know, don't you? Not just about Satine and I, but about…everything. You understand."

Rose didn't answer straight away. She gazed at the floor, tracing patterns in the dust with her index finger as she fought the lump in her throat. Her voice finally escaped in a strangled whisper.

"Crazy love- the type that shouldn't be but is. Love that… that… sets your life on fire and fills your world." Her voice rose slightly, and a single tear traced a track down her face. "Love worth fighting for."

The room suddenly felt very still. Christian saw himself, as in a dream, crouch down beside her. He reached out to her, cupping her face in his hand and gently running his thumb down her cheek.

She returned his gaze, unspent tears glittering in her eyes. 

"Christian…" Her voice was an uncertain whisper, but it seemed to pull him from his reverie. He stumbled backwards on his heels, mumbling an apology.

"God, Rose, I... I... I'm sorry, I don't know what I…"

Rose shook her head, collecting her dizzying thoughts. Her skin tingled where his hand had sat. The warmth of it remained, the gentle pattern that his fingers had traced. 

"Christian… it's alright. I…I… just…. There are things I haven't told you-_can't_ tell you, I just don't know how, and you've been so kind and I'm not sure if I…" 

She bit her lip painfully, unable to find the words to speak further. He was so very close to her still, and suddenly his proximity was dizzying. She felt torn, torn between the past and the unrelenting memories and the longing to just give in to whatever might be. It was cold here, and she felt so cold inside. It would be so easy just to let him hold her and fall headlong into a moment in time. 

Almost silently, she inched herself closer to him. Christian's voice sounded hoarse as it broke the heavy silence.

"What was his name?"

Vulnerability and deep sadness were etched into every feature. "Jack. His name was Jack." 

Christian nodded, unwilling to push any further. 

The warmth of his body next to her, the gentle, hypnotic pattern of his breathing-they seemed to draw Rose closer to him. A sob fought its way up from deep within as she leaned her head against his chest, drinking in his warmth and the solidness of his body against hers. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, stroking her hair. "Please don't leave, Christian," she mumbled, and he nodded soundlessly.

The lamplight threw shadows across them, as they stayed there, tangled in each other's arms. Pulling back slightly, Christian met her eyes with a shy half smile. Gently pushing a stray curl from her eyes, he whispered.

"Is this-" He bit his lip, uncertain. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, she nodded. Lamplight danced across his features, creating shadows and valleys, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. Breathing in deeply, she could smell the warm, sweet scent of him. 

His lips met hers gently, hesitantly, a kiss floating between them. His eyes fluttered open briefly, and she leaned closer, tangling her hands in his dark hair and pulling him to her as she captured his lips with her own. Their embrace was soft and gentle, but he held her tightly and his warmth enfolded her completely.

Her breath tickled his face as he pulled away slightly, one finger tracing the outline of her lips.

"Christian," she whispered shakily, her voice gusting against his hand.

"Was that- did I do the right thing?" Uncertainty clouded his eyes briefly, but Rose nodded, quelling any doubts. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she breathed him in, calmness and serenity settling about her like a blanket. 

"Hold me, Christian." Her voice was tissue-thin, a shaking whisper, but the haunted expression was absent from her eyes. 

Without question, he put his arms around her again, holding her in the flickering lamplight. Time slipped by quietly, the shadows danced and the room was all but silent. Lulled by Christian's heartbeat against her ear and his breath against her cheek, wrapped in his warmth and soft caresses, Rose drifted into a dreamless sleep.


	6. A New Dawn

_Title: Just to Love  
Author: Sarah (sfrench@austarmetro.com.au)  
Rating: PG  
Part: 6  
Fandom: Titanic and Moulin Rouge.  
Archive: My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, Penniless Poet, any Titanic fic archives, anyone else who wants it, really. Just let me know.  
Disclaimer. All recognizable characters copyright of their respective creators- BL and JC.  
Feedback: Most welcome. You can flame if you like, but I most probably won't answer.*g*  
Status: Incomplete. Still. I know.lol.  
Summary: A Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. What if Calvert's first name was Christian?  
A/N: This is kind of a bridging chapter. I know it's short, and I wasn't going to include any of this stuff , but I didn't like the way it sat without it, I felt we needed some explanation of how Christian was feeling and hopefully by the end we'll see that Rose is more than just a 'Satine replica'.. or that's the plan, anyway. Who knows if it'll work. *g* There will be action in chapter 7. I have written most of chapter 7 already, because it was actually meant to be part of chapter 6, but I decided that it was just way too long to be one chapter, so I'm splitting them in two. Make sense? Lol. Thanks for bearing with me.. I swear this will be finished soon. *g* thanks also to the people who have reviewed over the months. :) _

*************

Dawn was an orchestra of soft pastels and shimmering gold, creeping shyly over the horizon and peering through the curtains. Christian had never woken easily, and now his eyes protested against the smoky, blue glow of morning light. One arm was heavy and numb, and as he went to rub the legacy of sleep from his eyes, his fingers tangled in Rose's hair. 

She lay next to him, captured by dreams. Her head rested solidly on his arm, strands of hair reflecting the morning light and casting a glow across Christian's pale skin. A blanket was draped gently across her, and she was casual in sleep, an arm thrown to one side and hair everywhere. So different to Satine, Christian thought, remembering all the mornings he had waited for her to wake, silently hoping that he could watch her a little longer. Such moments might have sunk beneath the ebb and flow of an ordinary life, but they lived on in Christian's mind, sunlight-tinged and suspended in time. Even now his heart lingered somewhere between a soft smile and a sob as he remembered the way she had never seemed to sleep peacefully. Instead, she had clung to him, or had wrapped herself in a neat cocoon, as though that might provide protection from whatever invaded her dreams. But despite her late-night tears, Rose slept as though untroubled. In the unvarnished grip of sleep, Rose was nothing like Satine. 

Darkness caught in his throat at that thought. What was he doing? Was he deluding himself, leading himself down a dangerous path that would only end in yet more heartbreak for both of them? Rose had red hair, blue eyes, dreams of stages and applause. But she wasn't Satine any more than the shopkeeper at the market or the dark haired young mother next door might have been. Time and place had brought everything together- her hauntingly familiar appearance, his memories, a night wrapped in dejavu moments and the soft light of candles on these walls. But had the soft smiles and tender words of last night merely been directed at a shadowy reflection? 

A cold shadow of bewilderment and betrayal passed over him, as it seemed that Satine had been snatched from him once more. Suddenly, he saw a stranger before him, and wondered how he could ever forgive Rose for bearing the veneer of his lost love so convincingly. His memories of Satine had been distilled over the years; grief and loss whittling them down to the purest of emotions- idealistically remembered love. It seemed shameful, somehow, to have transferred those memories so effortlessly when they were all he had left. Somehow, that seemed more of a betrayal than ten years worth of half hearted love affairs. Satine would have wanted him to love again, he knew that much. But she would've wanted for him a love of substance, not something lulled into being by her half-whispered memory. Was that what was happening here? 

Bleary eyed and crumpled in last night's clothes, he sighed as he propped himself up on one elbow. Confusion clouded him, but as he gazed at Rose, the night came alive again in slow moments. She had grown heavy in his arms, and he had settled her down on the cushions where they sat, tucking a blanket around her and avoiding the familiar creaks in the floorboards. Moonlight had laid a path through the open curtains and across the floor, throwing gentle, blue-toned shadows and silver highlights across Rose's face, and he remembered now that he'd found himself lost in her; transfixed by her eyelashes curled against her cheek, by the lines of her hand against the pillow and the contrast between her red hair and pale skin. Lost in peaceful wonder, the most extraordinary feeling had dawned on him. It was the crystallized recognition of the miracle within the ordinary. For the first time in so long, there was contentment in being enfolded inside a moment that didn't ask 'what if.' Finally sleep had tugged at his eyes, too, and it had seemed right that he lay down next to Rose and allow himself to be lulled into dreams by the steady pattern of her breathing. 

However sunlight was harsher than moonlight. It did not allow the cracks of the past to be papered over quite so readily-it allowed thought and examination and rational behaviour. It demanded explanations and asked questions. This morning brought guilt and whispering uncertainty, and all at once Christian felt like a busybody crashing clumsily through a private moment. 

Rose stirred slightly, hovering on the edge of wakefulness and he was trapped. At any moment she would open her eyes and see him there. Attempting to pre-empt her, he reached a hand out to her and touched her gently on the shoulder. 

"Rose? Rose, wake up. It's morning." 

*To be continued.* 


	7. Never Go Back

Title: _Just to Love_  
Author: Sarah   
Rating: PG  
Part: 7  
Fandom: Titanic and Moulin Rouge.  
Archive: My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, Penniless Poet, any Titanic fic archives, anyone else who wants it, really. Just let me know.  
Disclaimer. All recognizable characters copyright of their respective creators- BL and JC. Feedback: Most welcome.   
Status: Work in progress.  
Summary: A Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. What if Calvert's first name was Christian? 

***

The fuzzy warmth of sleep held Rose still, and she blinked drowsily, fighting the morning light. Stubbornly curling back into the blanket's warmth, she tried to conjure a few further moments of peace and warmth before the day demanded attention. However, the sunlight had a way of sneaking around corners and through cracks, and reluctantly she lifted the corner of the blanket from her face to meet Christian's slightly bashful gaze. Crouching back on his heels, his expression was fixed in an awkward smile that seemed to both offer warmth and beg understanding. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Christian searched for the words, the tone of voice that would clear the tension from the air-words that would shape his muddled thoughts into something less threatening.

"Good... good morning."

"Christian?" 

Her tone was one of gentle bewilderment as she rubbed her eyes sleepily, trying to piece together fragments of memory from the night before.

"You're still here? What...?"

The silence between them was suddenly draped in an awful tension. There was an edge to her words, an edge that communicated to Christian that he'd done the wrong thing. 

A white flash of anger was all it took to transform Christian's undefined confusion into sharp-edged irritation. The pause, the judgmental tone- they set his teeth on edge. Why did he feel suddenly that explanations were demanded of him alone? Last night had drifted along, coming together without warning, and now she spoke as though everything that had happened had been at his command. Did she expect him to simply overlook the confessions and confidences of the night before? Did she not realise that his early morning thoughts had been filled with uncertainty also? 

The words leapt from his mouth before he had time to consider their consequences, harsh and sarcastic in the hum of early morning.

"Well, you didn't seem particularly keen for me to leave last night."

A swift flash of anger banished any trace of sleep from Rose's eyes. Christian didn't miss the gesture, and recoiled slightly, regretting his sharp tone. 

"Well, I don't recall asking you to stay, either."

They held each other's gaze for long moments, resentment crackling between them until Christian could take it no longer. Scrambling to his feet, he flung a cushion aside clumsily, tripping over it as he grabbed his coat from the corner.

"Fine, Rose. Fine. I'll leave. Have it your way. You obviously don't want me here-"

Rose opened her mouth to respond, but the words that might have helped refused to rise from the mire of tangled emotions, and Christian stormed on, oblivious.

"You're impossible, you know that? You're stubborn and headstrong and you're running scared from something and I don't know what it is."

"Christian..."

"I've been honest with you Rose. You know everything- _everything_, and you..."

He paused, teetering on the edge of a threshold from which he could never return. 

"...you didn't even tell me that you were engaged." 

The words escaped almost unbidden, spurred by helpless anger; anger that he'd allowed himself to be vulnerable, anger that Rose had betrayed that trust. Rose's face collapsed, not in tears but in a defeated expression that told Christian all he needed to know. 

"It doesn't matter. Just forget it, none of it matters. I'll just..."

Glancing up, his eyes met hers, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"...I'll just leave. Forget it."

"Christian! Wait-" 

The sound of the door shutting echoed around the room, and it was only as Christian's footsteps faded down the hall that Rose allowed herself to burst into tears.

***

Cal replaced the telephone, a grim smile on his face. 

"Problems, Sir?" Lovejoy's gravel-edged voice dripped with the certainty that there wasn't a problem Cal couldn't overcome by some means.

"Problems? Heaven's no." 

Pausing, Cal ran a finger along the table top in contemplation. 

"No, not problems. Just a sudden need for a little.... persuasion, perhaps."

***

The street was bustling by the time Christian stepped over the threshold. People everywhere, happy, laughing, busy people-could he ever relate to them again? He felt like he was watching from behind heavy glass, a mere spectator. A woman in front of him smiled wryly as her toddler jumped enthusiastically in a muddy puddle; an elderly man chatted with the shopkeeper as he picked out apples from a stall. The world seemed determined to prove the insignificance of his loneliness and despair. A long ago phrase flit through his mind; _The show must go on._ The show had gone on, and here he was- a lonely figure, huddled on the sidelines.

The sunshine that had woken him had vanished, and it seemed only fitting that the first, heavy drops of rain splashed his face and shoes. He hadn't been sure where he was going as he stormed out of Rose's apartment, and his plans were equally shapeless now. He didn't even know why he had reacted so violently to what amounted to mere tone of voice, a certain colour in Rose's eyes. All he knew was that every word she had spoken had stirred the confusion in the pit of his stomach to boiling point. 

Slamming the door behind him, he shrugged defiantly. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. He would just finish the play and get the hell out of this city. 

_Never go back._ That was why the very thought of returning to Paris had filled him with doubt. That was the message in all the sleepless nights, the rumbles of concern he'd suffered at the thought of seeing his old haunts again. Never go back. It was conventional wisdom, wasn't it? Now he knew why. Just being here had pulled him back under and knocked aside the flimsy walls of his new life. It was this city, this apartment, these damn memories that refused to loosen their hold, even after ten years. 

_Never go back._

Shrugging his shoulders hopelessly, he pulled his coat closer as the rain fell in earnest, pelting the streets until they shone. Alone and unnoticed, he trudged down the gleaming street.

_To be continued._


End file.
